The Case of the Unnoticed Violist
by astudyinfic
Summary: It seemed the perfect case for Sherlock Bloody Holmes: mysterious circumstances, hundreds of witnesses but no one saw anything, even a sodding symphony orchestra.
1. Greg is pissed

The waves of anger coming off him were so strong that he had a three foot radius of empty space around him, even in the early morning crowd on Baker Street.

"Bloody Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade fumed as he stomped towards number 221. "Fucking Sherlock Bloody Holmes. And fucking John Watson too." Not that the good doctor was really at fault, he had to concede. In the year since John Watson had moved to Baker Street, he had not yet missed a case with Sherlock. Having the doctor at his side seemed to tone the Consulting detective down to the point where it was almost tolerable to work with him.

That was until last night, when Sherlock showed up solo because the doctor was the only one on duty at the surgery over night. Or, at least, that was what Sherlock had said. Donovan was betting that John was deceased at home, probably chopped up in the refrigerator, at the hand of his "freakish" flatmate. Anderson was certain he had finally come to his senses and moved out. Greg was praying neither of them were correct because Sherlock without John was like a tornado. You could hear the sirens. You knew disaster was imminent. There was just nothing you could do but cower and wait for it to pass.

So last night, Mr. Sherlock Bloody Holmes had shown up at the crime scene which just happened to be at the Barbican Centre, home to the London Symphony Orchestra. One of the violists had dropped dead in the middle of the performance. Thankfully for the symphony public relations department, no one pays attention to the viola section so the death went unnoticed until after the concertgoers had left for home. It seemed the perfect case for Sherlock: mysterious circumstances, hundreds of witnesses but no one saw anything, even a sodding symphony orchestra.

The man in question spent 15 minutes stomping around the stage, looking at the body, and bemoaning the lack of actual medical knowledge on the Scotland Yard staff. If Lestrade had to hear "If John were here," one more time he was going to be committing homicide himself. Sherlock then proceeded to interrogate each and every member of the orchestra, reducing three flautists, and memorably, one rather burly looking euphonium player to tears before declaring the case beneath him and flouncing off in to the night.

Five hours later and not only was New Scotland Yard no closer to solving the case, but they also had a new case on their hands. It turns out that the back-up bow that belonged to the concertmistress had suddenly gone missing during the chaos of the murder investigation. When Lestrade questioned the merit of her claim, she had to be physically restrained to keep her from slugging him. Turns out that the "stick with a bit of hair on it" as he had unfortunately referred to it was worth over £13,000. Yeah, it was not shaping up to be his night.

That was how he found himself on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street at 7 in the morning, thanking the powers that be that good Mrs. Hudson had gotten tired of letting him in to the flat upstairs and finally just given him a key a few weeks back. His plan currently was to go upstairs and annoy Sherlock until he solved the case. Admittedly, it was a plan likely to fail, but at the moment it was the only thing the DI had.

Well, that and a sneaky suspicion that the bloody consulting detective had something to do with the disappearance of the bow. It wouldn't be the first time he had walked off with something from a crime scene, though it would be the most expensive. If it was him, Greg thought as he quietly climbed the stairs, he had better have a damned good reason.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he was surprised at the silence that greeted him. Even at 7 in the morning, one of them was usually awake, generally the doctor, but sometimes Sherlock as well, especially if he hadn't bothered going to bed. However, this time it was silent. No tea kettle in the kitchen. No test tubes rattling, or guns being fired at innocent smiley faces. Honestly, Lestrade was scared. Nothing involving Sherlock should be so calm and peaceful. That really should have been a sign.

Glancing up the stairs, Greg noticed John's door was closed. Not surprising for a man who had worked an overnight shift. (Or for someone currently chopped up in the freezer. He was not really willing to check that out quite yet.) More surprising was that Sherlock's door was closed. For a man who acted about as inhuman as they came, the fact that he occasionally ate and slept always seemed to catch Greg off guard.

Speaking of catching off guard, that gave him an idea. Perhaps a sleepy Sherlock would be a more compliant Sherlock. It was worth a chance. And after the shitload of ridiculousness the consulting detective had put him through throughout the years, missing a few minutes of sleep seemed like a minor trade off. So, with his mind made up, certain he was making the right move, he crossed the space between him and Sherlock's door, and without even knocking walked on in.

His first thoughts after crossing the threshold: "Always knock first."


	2. Greg is stunned

There are some things a man just doesn't ever need to see. High up on that list would be a pain in the arse consulting detective, au naturale, wrapped around an equally naked former army doctor who you actually respect. Well, did anyway. "It will be hard to look him in the eye after this," Greg's brain supplied unhelpfully.

"TURN AROUND!" a voice in his screamed at him. "Walk away. Actually, RUN!" Unfortunately, his brain had lost all control over the rest of his body. He stood and stared, rooted in place against his will by a body shocked into utter stillness. He may have stood there all day, eyes burning at the sight of acres of porcelain white skin intertwined with the desert tanned tones of his companion, if a voice hadn't interrupted his catatonic state.

"If you insist on staring, the least you could do is ask my permission first," Sherlock drawled, not even opening his eyes. "He is mine after all."

"I can't imagine that I am the only one he is staring at, Sherlock," mumbled the doctor, barely audible through the detective's shoulder. "Morning Greg," he said, raising his head to look in the DI's direction. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, Lestrade realized that John wasn't nearly as embarrassed as would have been expected. Maybe he had walked in on them before and then had his brain cauterized to purge the memory? That idea was sounding pretty good right now.

"Fuck," Greg whispered, running a hand through his hair, trying to process the scene in front of him.

"Well, that had been the plan," John deadpanned, looking at Sherlock, causing both of them to erupt in giggles.

"I, um, I will just wait for you in the living room, all right?" He finally stammered, leaving the two naked men behind, and trying desperately not to listen to what was going on in that room. As if his day wasn't bad enough already. There were not enough donuts in the world to make this his division. He banged his head on the doorjamb a few times, trying to dislodge the memory, or at least cause temporary amnesia.

Eventually the other two men emerged from the bedroom, John wearing one of his customary jumpers and jeans while Sherlock had on a ridiculous dressing gown and, please God, some pants.

"Be happy it's not a sheet," Sherlock growled at him, before flopping on the sofa. Greg was beginning to wonder how often the bad moods Sherlock had been in at crime scenes was because he had not gotten a leg over prior to the case. It sure seemed to be playing a part now. John meanwhile was busying himself in the kitchen, making tea from the sounds of it. It was difficult to choose which room would be more uncomfortable, the one with the tetchy detective or the one with his supposedly straight friend that he just found in bed with another man. Indecision caused him to wobble in the doorway like a man who had one too many pints in his system.

Sherlock glared at him from the couch. "Oh just sit down already and ask the question. It is written clearly all over your face."

It was at this point that John joined them in the living room and handed Greg his tea. Walking over to the couch, he nudged Sherlock with his knee, causing the detective to curl his legs up to make room for his friend. As soon as John was sitting, Sherlock straightened his legs so John's lap was now full of the detective's rather large feet.

"Sherlock, sit up and drink your tea before it gets cold," the doctor scolded, as he handed the cup to his flatmate. With the sullenness of a temperamental toddler, he accepted the drink and sat unreasonably close to his friend.

"Seriously took you long enough," John said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence that hung between them as they all sipped their tea. "Sherlock had said it would take you at least a year to figure it out, but I didn't think he was giving you enough credit. I had guessed three months at most. I should know by now not to go against him. He is almost always right you know."

Until then, Sherlock had been looking rather smug, but at the word "almost" he turned to glare at the doctor. "Oh don't look at me like that. You know it's true," John said as he smiled lovingly at the now sulking detective.

Lestrade's brain was struggling to keep up. "So, this isn't a new thing then?" he asked, hoping to catch up with the conversation before it left him behind completely. "How long have you two been, a, um, couple?" The word stuck on his tongue, sounding completely foreign when applied to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Yet there was no way he could deny any longer what he was seeing.

"Have you ever seen my bedroom upstairs?" John asked, surprising the DI with an abrupt change of subject.

"No. There was never a need to go up there during the drug busts. Why do you ask?" He had a suspicion that he knew where this was going.

"There is no bed up there for one thing. Never has been. I would have needed to get one when I moved it, but, well, it was never really necessary."

"So, this whole time…" The ground beneath him felt a bit wobbly. It was like everything he knew about his friend and colleague was a lie.

"Yep. Since 'A Study in Pink'. We keep it quiet obviously. First, we don't need the likes of Anderson giving us his opinion on our relationship any more than he already does. Second, when Moriarty was still a threat, it would have been dangerous for others to know just what John meant to me. Now there is no such threat, but I still trust that you will not spread this around more than necessary." It was the most Sherlock had ever said about his personal life in front of the DI.

Lestrade was a bit shocked to hear Sherlock speak so candidly. He had always known these two were close. It was obvious considering you rarely saw one without the other. But to know that they had been together for a year, it shook him to the core to realize they weren't just close, they were in love. That jolt got his brain working again, and he remembered why he had come by in the first place.

"Sherlock, I promise that I won't speak a word of this if you don't want me to. However, this is not why I came by. You need to help with the violist case. I know you think it is beneath you, but I still have a dead musician with a family who would like some answers. Also, if you happen to know anything about a missing violin bow, I would be most appreciative if you could pass along that message, or if the bow could reappear in the concertmistress' dressing room by the end of the day."

"Dull," Sherlock started to say, before being elbowed in the ribs by John.

"He was a complete arse last night, wasn't he?" he asked Greg, who nodded. "In that case, you are getting dressed and we are going down there, right now." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but the look John shot him stopped him in his tracks. "Now, Sherlock."

The detective went to the desk and wrote a quick note on a scrap of paper. As he strode to the bedroom, he passed the note to the DI. "If I have to do this, I expect those people to be waiting at the Centre when we arrive in 30 minutes." John and Lestrade followed him in to the hallway, as Lestrade made for the stairs to show himself out. The not-so-observant DI didn't notice John's cane and a violin bow tucked in to the corner by the door.

Sherlock glanced briefly at John, who raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Actually, make that an hour."


	3. Interlude: Behind the Bedroom Door

John stumbled into 221B around 4:30, dead tired and terrified at what his other half had been up to in his absence. Visions of heads in the fridge and toes in the pickle jar danced in his head, but he found the flat blissfully quiet. He reflected, not for the first time, that he may be the only boyfriend in the world to have an actual reason for those types of concerns.

"This wouldn't have been a problem if I had just settled down with someone like Sarah," he thought as he quietly made his way down the hall to their bedroom. The thought was common, generally after Sherlock had set fire to the kitchen yet again, but so was the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that followed. While his life may have been more normal with someone else, there is no way he would have been happier. Sherlock had filled a hole in his life and he could no longer imagine a day without him. They could each survive on their own if they had to, but it would be a sad, boring existence. "We would be like toast without jam, flavorless, colorless, and bland," he smiled to himself.

The door creaked open and his heart jumped to his throat as he took in the sight before him. Even after all these months together, seeing Sherlock actually asleep and naked in their bed still sent shivers through him. Sherlock had chosen him, a completely ordinary, slightly broken down ex-army doctor. He couldn't help but feel grateful that he was the man to spend his life with the extraordinary Sherlock Holmes.

His clothes ended up piled on the floor. After 10 hours at the clinic they would need to be washed to get the smell of hospital and antiseptic out. Sliding under the covers, his bedmate did not even stir. John leaned over and pressed a kiss between the prominent shoulder blades before settling himself on his stomach, one arm draped across Sherlock's back. "Good night, love," he whispered before drifting off to sleep.

"Too early," were his first thoughts as his mind tumbled its way back into consciousness. The next thought was that his rather abrupt return to the waking world was not natural. Instead, a long violinist's finger was poking him repeatedly in the ribs.

"Stop that right now if you would like that finger to remain attached to your body," he growled while cracking his eyelids open just enough to see that he had barely been asleep for two hours. "You had better have a good reason for waking me up, you insufferable bastard," he exclaimed, trying, but failing, to put malice behind those words.

"You don't really mean that, do you John?" rumbled a deep baritone right next to his ear. And dear god, if he did not actually mean it, because there were certain parts of his anatomy quite happily waking up to just the first tone of that beloved voice.

"Sherlock, what possible reason do you have for getting me up at this hour?" he asked, knowing from experience that if it was sex the detective wanted, he had more productive ways of bringing it up. So to speak.

John could feel Sherlock's grin against his ear, no doubt deducing exactly what had been going through his mind. "I just wanted to inform you that you have about 30 minutes to be up and out of this bed if you wish for this relationship to remain a secret."

Up until now, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft were the only two of their friends and acquaintances to discover the relationship. Mycroft figured it out through his usual unsettling methods, and had done the proper big brother thing by threatening to wipe John from existence if he hurt Sherlock. The terrifying part was that he actually could. Mrs. Hudson had discovered it because even with the thickness of the walls at 221 Baker Street and the use of her herbal soothers, there were just some things she couldn't help overhearing. Some days they were just a bit….exuberant.

John blinked up at him, a bit confused. "Are you trying to end things with me? Because if that is the case, you are going to have to wait until I have some more sleep." He rolled over and tried to ignore his mad boyfriend in the hopes of getting a few more hours of rest.

"Idiot," he heard Sherlock proclaim, lovingly he hoped. "I am not trying to break up you. Lestrade should be here soon. He is going to need to speak with me, and he will be upset. I expect that he will just walk right in here when he does not see me out in the rest of the flat. Therefore, if you do not want an angry Detective Inspector walking in on us in bed, you may want to get up now."

"Why is he angry? What did you do?" He rolled over to face Sherlock, realizing this was probably a conversation to have face to face.

A suddenly repentant looking Sherlock glanced away briefly before returning his eyes to John's. "I refused to solve his case last night, after making a bit of a scene. He will be here to yell until I tell him who did it."

"Did you ever think that maybe he solved it without your help? He did manage to do his job before you came along you know?" John smiled at the disgust that spread across Sherlock's face.

"Even if he did, which he did not, I took precautions to make sure that he would be coming by anyway. He will not be pleased."

"Sherlock, what did you do? And why?" This conversation was not making a lot of sense to John, and he was not sure that more sleep would be the answer to solving it.

"I am tired of hiding John. I am tired of not being able to touch you in public. I am tired of them believing me to be unlovable when the most amazing person in the world spends each and every night in bed with me. I am tired of the looks of pity that you get when I have to play cold-hearted detective and yell at you or ignore you at a crime scene. Lestrade is the best choice for someone to discover the relationship as he will be discreet about who he tells and how. This was the best option." Sherlock looked away, blinking rapidly for a moment.

John's heart swelled at Sherlock's words. While the man may talk all the time, usuallly he did not actually say much. That was one of the most amazing declarations of love John had ever heard, and it had come from Sherlock Holmes. He had no idea that the hiding was as frustrating to Sherlock as it was to him. He could not stop himself as he reached over and pulled his lover close. Sherlock came willing, wrapping his long limbs around John.

"All you ever had to do was ask. I love you, you idiot. I want to shout it from the rooftops. If this is what you want, I have no intention of leaving this bed." As he spoke, he pressed his lip to Sherlock's shoulder, tongue sneaking out to taste his skin. It tasted slightly of soap, slightly of cinnamon, slightly of sleep-sweat, and entirely of Sherlock. It was the best taste in the world.

"John, unless you want the DI to get more of an eyeful then we were already planning, I suggest you stop that right now," he breathed, body quivering around John's.

"Later," John promised.

At that moment they heard the door downstairs open, and a man's angry footsteps on the stairs. They grinned at each other before snuggling even closer just as the door flew open to show a very surprised Greg Lestrade.


	4. Greg is Pleased

Greg was pleasantly surprised when John and Sherlock arrived via cab not 50 minutes after he had left the flat. He could not help but notice that John's hair was rather untidy and Sherlock's cheeks had a rosy glow where normally there was only an icy white. He schooled his expression to as close to neutral as he could manage while on the inside he was wincing at the mental image of this morning only…more.

He had assembled the suspects, or whoever they were, that Sherlock had requested. Each was a member of the orchestra, one of them being the violist's spouse, the first chair trombone player. The remaining cast of characters were three female cellists and a male flute player. Each had brought along their concert attire and their instrument, with case, as demanded by the consulting detective.

Sherlock had sent John off somewhere and was currently digging through the cases of each of the assembled musicians. Almost immediately the flute player was dismissed with a sneer that told Greg Sherlock had only summoned him back out of spite. Perhaps the man had been rude to him the night before. Sherlock never did react well when the tables were turned.

One cellist was dismissed for being left-handed, which surprised Greg considering the victim had been poisoned and not shot. The toxicology report was inconclusive on the type of poison used and Molly had not found an injection sit or signs of ingestion on the body. They were at a loss as to how and why this man had been killed. There was a reason he had gone to Sherlock. You could not help but appreciate his results.

"Ah ha!" Sherlock shouted as he dug through a cello bag. "Everyone else can go except the owner of this bag and the husband," he stated, as though he were the one running the investigation. Deep down Lestrade feared that thought might not be totally inaccurate.

Sherlock was whispering excitedly with John, who again disappeared only to return a few minutes later with what Greg recognized as the deceased violist's case, which he handed to Sherlock, hands grazing briefly while eyes met. Now that he knew the truth about them, Lestrade wondered how he had ever missed it.

Digging through the case, Sherlock's hand emerged clutching a small cloth pouch that he handed to Lestrade. "That is your murder weapon, Detective Inspector. When it has been analyzed, you will find it contains the same chemical as the poison found in the victim's system."

"But what is it?" the DI asked, opening the pouch to reveal a small, sticky, amber colored blob. "And how did the poison get in to him?"

"Rosin for the bows. Specifically cello rosin. So, why was it in the violist's case? Cello rosin is typically stickier than the type used for violins and violas. As a professional, he would have known that it was the wrong type of rosin, so he must have had a reason for using it." Sherlock paused for a breath and Greg could only stand back and watch, slightly awed as usual.

"The piece the symphony was playing at the time of death had many sforzandos in the viola part. Knowing that, the victim borrowed the cello rosin from his lover, in order to have the bow grip the strings better during the piece. You, Miss Rockhurst, where the lover, were you not?" At this he turned to the cello player who already had tears in her eyes.

"Yes, I was. And he did borrow my rosin, but I didn't know it was poisoned. I promise! I would never have hurt him!" she wept as all eyes turned towards her. The trombone player husband glared while others looked on with a combination of compassion and disbelief.

"No, no. None of thought that. I mean, did you see the way his bow tie was tied? Obviously you had no ill will towards him. But someone obviously did towards you. It was your rosin that was poisoned after all."

"Wait," Greg interrupted. "How did the poison get in him? He didn't lick it right?" He was so far out of his league with this musical stuff that he only hoped he wasn't making a fool of himself, but knowing Sherlock, he probably was.

"He inhaled it," Sherlock said with an air of condescension. "During the sforzando portion, he would have been bowing hard, causing particles of rosin to fly into the air. With an instrument so close to his nose and mouth, he could not help but breathe it in. This would not have been a problem for a cello player. So not only is our murderer homicidally jealous, but also supremely stupid. Which brings us to you." Greg, sensing where this was going, walked around behind the trombone playing husband who Sherlock was now addressing.

"You obviously know enough about string instruments to realize that they need rosin. But how were you expecting the poison to kill someone from a foot and a half away? I understand jealousy, but if I was looking to kill my partner's lover, I would at least be smart enough to do it properly."

"Sherlock," John warned in a voice that was becoming oh-so-typical at London area crime scenes. "Just finish it up, ok."

"I thought I had. He poisoned the rosin in an ill conceived attempt to kill the lover, not realizing that his husband would borrow the rosin and actually be able to breathe in the chemical meant to kill the woman. He was stupid and has now lost everything. Dull. John, shall we go?" He made for the exit, with John following close behind, as always.

"Sherlock!" Greg called after him, as Donovan put handcuffs on the suspect. "What about the missing bow?"

"What missing bow? I am sure you will find she misplaced it when spending an afternoon with the associate concertmaster in his dressing room. They have been involved for at least 6 months. What would you do without me to do your job for you?" He called this out, not even bothering to slow down or look back. John turned around to smirk at them over his shoulder. As they went through the door, they just made out John grabbing Sherlock's hand as the door closed behind them.

"Did I just see what I think I saw?" Donovan asked, looking slightly aghast.

"Don't even ask," Greg replied.

* * *

_So here it is, the end. I never intended to make this a case fic. It was just going to be a fluffy little page about Lestrade accidently stumbling on Sherlock and John in bed. However, I am pleased with how it turned out, even if it does feel a bit disjointed. I will probably go back and tweak a few things, but overall, I'm done. Hope you enjoyed it. -J_


End file.
